Bound
by liveandlove1989
Summary: ""Fool..." Merrill's lips quirked up without her permission, because she knew Isabela was right." Isabela x Merrill. Language warning. Some minor game details changed.


She woke up alone.

Just like every morning, even if that wasn't how she'd fallen asleep. It always felt like a muffled pinch. Muffled because she wanted to be okay with it. Isabela was Isabela and had always been Isabela. Merrill couldn't change that. Didn't want to.

So she rolled out of bed and dressed. Found a vivid green clothe that didn't belong to her. She smiled - genuinely - and tucked it beneath her pillow.

Isabela would be back and Merrill would return it. But, for the moment, it was hers.

Even if the woman it belonged to wasn't.

* * *

The Hanged Man smelled strongly of piss poor alcohol and sweat and cheap, aging wood and week old vomit. Merrill loved it in a way one can only love something they don't understand. It was a fascination that blossomed in her being each time she stepped through the entryway into the tavern's weak lighting.

When among the Dalish, celebration was not common place, and even when it was it never developed into scenes like the ones she'd witnessed over the course of only a handful of years within the walls of Kirkwall. Humans were an oddity to her even now.

Varric called her over almost as soon as she'd entered and she maneuvered her way towards the back, mindful of fellow patrons already tipsily slurring and mulling about. Hawke was already there as well, two mugs in and grinning like a fool. She wolf whistled as Merrill sat across from her, going so far as to wink playfully when their eyes met briefly. Merrill felt the back of her neck heat up in embarrassed amusement.

But before Hawke could properly greet her with the words forming along her upturned lips, a palm rested ever so gently on the rogue's shoulder. Anders placed another sloshing mug of ale down on the table top, and Hawke hummed her approval. Her fingers slipped all too easily between the spaces of his own.

Varric took the moment to push a small glass Merrill's way - clean(ish), so it had to belong to him - filled with a clear liquid. When the elf tentatively accepted it and brought it to her lips, she was pleasantly surprised to find it was just water.

Where she had no qualms towards drinking the beverages served in the tavern, Merrill had learned quickly that her body could handle far less than she was willing to drink. She was thankful that the dwarf gave some semblance of consideration for her well-being.

Anders sat and a quiet conversation broke out between the four. Hawke had a potential job for them that evening, a simple sweep of the docks to clear out a gang that had recently moved in and was causing chaos for the guard, namely Aveline. Merrill eagerly accepted before letting her eyes wander away from her friends.

She scoped out the entirety of the tavern's lower floor. No Isabela, which meant one of two things. She had either found a suitor to bring to her room here, or she was out doing whatever it was she did when she disappeared for days on end.

Merrill felt something strange in her belly but didn't let herself voice her concerns.

So she just drank her water and listened to Hawke's bragging and took comfort in the fact she wouldn't be alone for the rest of the day.

* * *

A jolt of pain swept through the right side of her head; she winced back and raised a hand and swiped at the stinging without thought, protectively cupping her ringing ear. Something warm and wet met her probing fingertips. She dismissed it, knowing from the thrumming effect it had on her mana exactly what it was, and raised her staff in defense.

The nearest cult member fell to his knees, curling in on himself as his eyes rolled back in his head, mouth agape in a silent scream of unimaginable horror. Hawke's blade sliced cleanly through his throat, and he fell limply to the side. A bolt flew by Merrill and landed squarely in the eye of a rogue that had been advancing, dropping her before the mage had a chance to be taken by surprise. She mentally thanked the stocky dwarf and his prized crossbow.

But as the battle raged on she felt the pull of each casting. A winter's grasp left her staggering, her vision fading in and out and the breath catching in her throat. The warmth was further down, now. On her neck and shoulder and the ringing had become a deep, almost guttural hum that made everything sound fuzzy on that side. Nausea hit her hard and she uselessly wrenched, falling to her knees but still raising her hand and sending out a plume of flames at the shielded warrior that approached. Hawke once more took down the staggered foe from behind, and then the battle was over.

They stood - or, in Merrill's case, kneeled - in bloody success. The air was static, sticky, smelled of sweat and copper and heat. Merrill's staff felt as if made of lead and slipped from her fingers to clatter uselessly next to her on the pavement, and suddenly Anders was looming over her.

She heard his intake at the sight of her injury but she couldn't find it in herself to ask how bad it was. Not out of fear, but because the words were too heavy and tasted bitter coating her tongue. She saw the blue hue of his healing before she felt it, and then Varric was before her and she looked him directly in the eye.

He looked confused, or maybe concerned, or maybe disappointed. She couldn't really tell when her eyelashes kept getting stuck together and it took far more willpower than she possessed to keep her eyelids open.

She gave in to the impending darkness to the sound of his unintelligible voice saying something she couldn't understand.

* * *

It was still dark when she opened her eyes; the ground seemed a lot softer than she remembered, though.

Merrill shifted, went to sit up and found it wasn't dirt or stone beneath her palms. A thin sheet fell from around her and pooled in her lap. She was in a bed. Her bed, to be exact. She blinked and her ears twitched and she went to push up and off the scratchy mattress when a sudden spark lit and light invaded the room.

The shadows withdrew so fast it left her blinking and wincing and dazed. The light of a single candle revealed the lithe, slim form of a woman standing in her doorway, dark skin dancing with the disturbed night. Her eyes were golden pools of uninhibited concern as they raked over the elf. Merrill felt the pirate's name ghosting across her tongue, but it still somehow surprised her when it fell from her parted lips.

She could have sworn she caught the way Isabela's body tensed at the tone she couldn't help giving to those four syllables. Her own muscles tensed in apprehension but then that light was closer and the woman was leaning over her and Merrill had to hold her breath as Isabela's free hand reached up.

Her fingertips traced the smooth skin of Merrill's cheek and their eyes met and she swallowed, hard. When she whispered, it was in a voice neither were expecting.

"Fool..." Chastising, disapproving, but gentle and awed.

Merrill's lips quirked up without her permission, because she knew Isabela was right. She was a fool. But that was okay, so long as it kept this woman at her side.

* * *

Merrill's favorite thing to receive from Varric were the trinkets. Statuettes and carvings and shapes made from cheap metals that posed as expensive pieces. Falsehoods, but that mattered little when Merrill kept them simply for their intrigue and not for their value.

Her favorite was a nug shaped one she'd placed along her mantle, right next to the halla carving Hawke had gifted her when she'd first come to the city years previously. She wasn't sure why that one was her favorite - maybe because she'd never actually seen a nug up close, or because they were strangely cute creatures.

Merrill didn't just keep these small things. She gave them to her friends, and sometimes to her not friends.

She gave one that looked like a sword, or maybe a dagger, to Fenris. He had grunted in disgust and denied it but she had insisted and, from what Hawke claimed, still had it in his mansion. She gave one that she thought looked oddly like a helm to Carver before he joined the Templar order.

And then, when she herself went out hunting for these treasures and found one that was a model ship, she gave it to Isabela.

She took two days to sand down the chippings and polish it and make it look as close to brand new as she possibly could before making her way to the Hanged Man. Once there, however, it had been the issue of nerves.

Merrill had stood outside of Isabela's room for what felt like hours, feet planted but heart hammering in her chest. She couldn't bring herself to lift her hand from the small model and knock.

It wasn't until Isabela had opened the door unexpectedly, having been preparing to go downstairs for a drink, that she found the elf awkwardly just standing there. She looked timid and unsure and when asked what was wrong thrust the tiny ship towards the pirate with eyes downcast and hands shaking.

Isabela had taken the gift silently, and when Merrill held her breath and looked up she was blown away by the small, unsure smile that graced the woman's lips. It was genuine but uncertain, which somehow made it even more beautiful. When their eyes met, Isabela sighed out the nickname she used for the elf and leaned in, placing a chaste kiss to Merrill's cheek and making her head spin.

That had been a good day. They had shared a drink, then headed to the Alienage. Merrill wouldn't swear to it, but that might have been the night they broke the only decent kitchen chair she owned.

* * *

She visited Hawke a few days later, a rare visit since the dashing rogue had moved up in the world - quite literally - and now lived in Hightown.

It wasn't that Merrill didn't want to visit. She did. It was just...

She didn't like the way the people in Hightown looked at her. It was too elegant here and to them, she was worth less than the rats that scurried in the depths of Darktown.

But, upon insistence, she'd shown up. She was more than a little surprised when it was Leandra, and not Sandal or Bohdan, that opened the door, though she hid her shock behind the smile she gave in turn when the older woman greeted her. She had a feeling the simper Leandra gave was less that genuine, but didn't dare voice that thought.

Hawke met her at the base of the stairway and they went up together. As Hawke opened the door to her chamber, Wrex - her mabari - came bounding out, and Merrill couldn't stop the laughter that bubbled from her chest as the massive dog came up to her in puppy-like excitement. She took a moment to scratch behind his ear before joining her friend, who was spreading out a ridiculously large collection of tomes across the foot of her bed.

They were all on topics related to mages, ranging from the Circles to Tevinter to - and Merrill didn't want to know how Hawke had managed to get her hands on books related to the subject - blood magic. She had to admit, she was somewhat impressed at the rogue's insistence to learn all she possibly could about the subject.

Together, they spent the evening discussing and dissecting the source material. Merrill was honest in that she didn't understand the vast majority of it. The Dalish were an isolated people - they chose their own way of life and the things depicted in the tomes, while similar, were far from the same she'd come to know growing up in a clan.

But her viewpoint seemed to only strengthen Hawke's positive opinion of her. She was grateful for that. Hawke was one of the few people Merrill felt she could truly claim was a friend to her here in Kirkwall.

But, as evening turned to night and the fire that had been burning turned to shy flickers and hungry embers, she excused herself. Hawke walked with her to the door, and Merrill said her goodbyes before slipping out into the developing dusk, beginning her trek back home.

* * *

The Alienage was too quiet. As if all its residents had vanished from their homes and she was the only one left.

Merrill felt oddly giddy as she rushed across the square, guided by moonlight alone, to her rundown shack of a house. The old wood of her door creaked and groaned and seemingly threatened to give in as she pushed it open. An inky sort of blackness left her blinded and, after closing the door securely, Merrill began the stumbling shuffle over the tiny side table she left a candle on for this exact purpose.

She felt around blindly for it, but when she came up empty handed, she frowned. While she would be the first to admit her, at times, airheadedness, she was very much certain she'd set out the candle earlier in the day. She reached out once more, fingertips ghosting over the aged wood, mindful of splinters.

Nothing.

Until a hand reached out from the dark and covered her mouth. She barely had time to let out a muffled yelp before she was being tugged back, her feet tripping over themselves, and her back met the soft, giving front of a curvaceous figure of a stranger.

Only, it wasn't a stranger.

When mana thrummed through her body and Merrill twisted to defend herself, a hot mouth was placed against her ear. The breathy voice that spoke to her was needy and wanting, made a shudder course down the length of Merrill's spine.

Isabela let her grip wane, and the elf turned in her arms and their mouths met and they moved together, until they bumped into the sharp edge of Merrill's kitchen table. Isabela cursed and Merrill laughed and they clung to one another in the dark, Isabela's playful threat of leaving enough to have Merrill pulling her closer.

They didn't quite make it to the bedroom after that.

* * *

She woke up alone.

Just like every morning. Even if that wasn't how she'd fallen asleep. It always felt like a muffled pinch. Muffled because she wanted to be okay with it. Isabela was Isabela and had always been Isabela. Merrill couldn't change that. Didn't want to.

So she rolled out of bed and dressed. Made her way out the room.

Only to come to a screeching halt at the scene that greeted her, of a certain pirate with her feet propped up on the kitchen table and two plates and mugs sitting before her, and a smirk that left Merrill breathless in its wonder. Merrill couldn't hide the smile that blossomed across her face in turn, nearly splitting it in half when Isabela murmured, "Good morning."

Merrill walked over. Laid a hand on the back of the chair she didn't own. It wasn't hers.

Even if the woman in it was.


End file.
